Nervous
by The Secret Pen
Summary: "They say you are what you eat. Well, if that's true, then I am nothing." Bella is an anorectic struggling with poor self esteem. When an act of violence lands her in court mandated rehab, she finds solace in her roommate, Alice, as well as a friendly janitor named Edward. All human. Canon couples.
1. Chapter 1

They're looking at me. Across the room, from the corners of their eyes, Jessica and Lauren are watching my every move. This is their usual routine. They tire of their typical, vapid conversations, which usually revolve around the sexual lies they tell, and look for something else to entertain themselves with. It's me. It's always me. They're probably talking about my clothes. I don't dress like the other girls at my school. They wear their mass produced t-shirts, expose their breasts, and otherwise, beg for the male attention. I don't want to be mass-produced. I want to be special.

So rather than sit around in a bubblegum pink tank top, or cerulean blue shorts that show off the lower curvatures of my ass, I'm wearing my grandmother's sweater. It smells like her, and it is warm in the December chill, but that's not why I wear it. I wear it because it's baggy. No one will be able to see … see my … see my … … …

Their voices escalate. They want me to hear. They want the satisfaction of knowing they made me cry. But they won't. I refuse to be caught in their net.

I'm watching the clock. The hands are warring against me. Taunting. Teasing. Tempting. Urging. I briefly wonder how I'm able to stand as the bell rings. It's shrill and deafening, and I actually feel myself flinch in response. The two girls next to me notice and start to laugh. It's nothing I haven't heard before, though. They're always laughing at me.

The hallway beyond the classroom door is spinning, and it takes a great effort to walk a straight line. Still, I know I'm wobbling. I can tell in the perplexed stares I receive from the other students. They hurry out of my way, desperate to clear a path for me. They all know me. They all whisper about me. I know they do. I can hear them.

"_What's wrong with her?"_

"_Is she on drugs?"_

"_She is so weird!"_

I ignore them. That's all I can do, after all. I have no strength left. If I were to turn and shout at them, to insist that they mind their own business, I would faint in the middle of the hallway. That would only exacerbate my problems. So I turn the other cheek, denying their cruel words purchase in the soil of my mind, and shuffle to the end of the hall.

The bathroom door all but collapses underneath the weight of my hand, and I hold tightly to the door handle, fearing I might lose the last of my constitution. I am able to just make it into the handicapped stall before my knees give out. The fake marble floor rushes up and crashes against my kneecaps. I cry out in pain, knowing that I will have a bruise in the morning, but I don't care. As I rip open my backpack, I find the reason behind all the torment, the cause of my struggle.

A large, ripe orange.

In sixty seconds, I will peel off the outer coating and take a timid bite. Not too much, just enough to sate the beast inside me. I know how to wait, how to put off the daily habit that so many people tend to mindlessly. It's a talent. I'm proud of my ability.

I close my eyes and inhale. I smell the sweet citrus, and it sets my body on fire. My mouth starts to water. I have longed for this moment all day. This is my reward, the accolade for my triumph. I don't have to wait much longer.

Not wanting to jump the gun, I open my notebook. I received my progress report today. I don't know why I choose to look at it. I know what it will say. I'm a good student. No. I am a phenomenal student. I have to be. It's the only way to keep the others away. I can't have them prying, trying to understand. They won't. They never will. They still try, though. I hate that. I hate that I have to lie. Liars make me sick. I have to lie, though. I have to say I ate. I have to say that I didn't lose any more weight.

The bathroom door opens, and my hands close reflexively over my juicy prize. I curl up against the toilet, hoping to become invisible. Two sets of footsteps echo, followed by voices. I do not recognize them. They chit chat momentarily, talking about things that do not interest me, such as spending time with friends, dates, and cars.

I don't have friends. Not really, anyway. I have people who think I am their next charity project, those who want to gawk and poke at "the freak," and then, there's Angela.

The strange girls leave the restroom. There is silence before the door pushes open again. I breathe out a sigh of relief as a timid, familiar voice calls out, "Hello?"

"Hello," I respond calmly.

Angela is like me. She hides away, too. We would take one another's secret to the grave. We don't speak of it, though. We don't share tips or recipes as the other girls do. What we have belongs to us and us alone. I hear her enter the stall next to mine. This is the closest to an actual conversation that we will ever have. The silence that stretches on is bloated with curiosities. I only know her name because of the monogrammed name on her book bag. To be honest, I don't even know what Angela looks like.

It's almost time. I start to peel the orange. I can hear Angela struggling with some kind of plastic packaging. I wonder what she has. Potato chips? Oreos? Some kind of candy? Merely thinking of the fattening treats makes me quiver. I wonder if it's the same feeling Jessica and Lauren got the first time they found a pornographic website. I have heard them talking about it. They're addicted, and they don't even realize it.

Am I trembling? Yes, but not because I am weak. I'm excited. This is the most stimulation I get these days. I detest school; I abhor the hormonal ocean that I have been forced into, and the fact that I am required to wear a mask every day. When will it end?

I glance at my watch. My mother will be waiting for me in the parking lot. She and I have a tenuous relationship. It's been this way since Thanksgiving. I hate that holiday. Whoever decided to create a national holiday dedicated to gluttony should have been killed.

Every year, I try to get out of it. It's all the same, after all. Mom and Aunt Sue serving the food, shoveling more and more on my plate, regardless of how many times I tell them to stop. There was this, this gravy … this turkey gravy in this large, sterling silver bowl. It was disgusting. I saw how it was slick with fat, I mean, oily globules of fat.

Each time I tried to pull away, to sit in the other room, Mom would say, "Take some gravy! Take some turkey! More mashed potatoes! More stuffing! More butter! More cranberry sauce! More of this! More of that!"

_More. More. More. More. More._

Thanksgiving, two years ago, was the first time I stuck my finger down my throat. As I turned the lock on the bathroom door, I instinctively knew what to do. It felt so good, so right. I was safe, protected.

Since last month's incident, when I practically stabbed my cousin with a fork when he tried to give me more, Mom's watched me like a hawk. Not that I could blame her. I went from 126 pounds to 120, to 115, to 109. She started asking what was "going on," was I "on a diet or something," was I "trying to starve myself?"

Last night, she barged into my room, fouling up the air with her cigarette, and she took hold of my sweater. She pulled it tight and seeing the shape of my body, I freaked out. I screamed at her to leave me alone, to not touch me. I hate it when people touch me. It's not a phobia, I just … don't like it.

As of today, I weigh 93 pounds. I did this morning, anyway. I've had a diet coke. Four cans of diet coke. So I know I'm heavier. I hate running to the bathroom a dozen times a day, my stomach bloating. I hate that people can see it. It looks like I'm, you know, going to have a baby, pregnant or something. Oh no. I'm never going to do that. I don't want to be a breeder. Another nameless female, pushing out another nameless human. Not special.

It's time. I carefully finish peeling the orange. With a calculated, careful maneuver, I pull off a sliver. The juice drips down my wrist, and for a moment, I get aroused. The deprivation of nourishment can do that sometimes. I am always thinking of this. This moment. This joy. This beauty. It's like a fire. It hurts. The inside of my mouth is on fire with want. The beast wants to tear into the orange. It wants to go find more food, possibly a buffet. It wants to eat and eat, until I am as big as the checkout girl at the supermarket. She has to use a wheelchair. I know. I've seen it. That's what they want me to be. I won't be that. I would rather die than be that.

The tiny piece of orange bursts in my mouth, electrifying the dormant taste buds. I lean back and enjoy the pure delight of the taste on my lips. I know I shouldn't, but I slip another piece into my mouth. I'm in heaven. I can feel something unravel inside of me, a knot loosens. I am free. I hear a tiny thump on the bathroom wall, and I know it's Angela. She's feeling what I am feeling. We share this moment every day. Our own little world.

The happiness is over abruptly as my cell phone starts to ring. I glare at it and curse myself for not remembering to turn off the ringer. I hate being interrupted. This is my time. I dedicate hours to school and family, why can I not get a few moments to myself?

I answer, "What."

"Where are you?" My mother's voice demands. "I've been waiting for almost twenty minutes!"

Has it been that long? Time slips by so easily when I'm in here.

"I'm coming," I snap, ending the call with an angry grunt. A bit of strength has returned. I think I can make it to the parking lot. Here's hoping I can make it to the parking lot.

I gather my belongings, wrapping up the unfinished orange and placing it reverently in the upper pouch of my backpack. After flushing the toilet for appearances, I exit the stall and head into the hallway. I don't say goodbye to Angela. Just like everything else, our goodbyes are silent. It may seem odd and strange, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

I walk steadily, one foot in front of the other, my head down, trying to blend into my surroundings—trying to be anything but what I am. The student body steps out of my way effortlessly, allowing me forward in my own world. They have grown to understand the repercussions for stepping in, for hindering those of us who march to a different tune. Then again, maybe they just don't care. Whatever. It doesn't matter, I suppose.

The front doors to the school loom ahead of me, and I am already tensing. The main hallway is one of Jessica and Lauren's hunting grounds. It is there that they first honed their bullying skills, cornering unsuspecting freshman or sophomores, picking on them for anything. Clothes, makeup, or the lack of those, they don't care. They are merciless vultures, and as a rotting piece of meat, I have learned to just let them have their fun.

As I pass by the cafeteria, I notice one of the posters and smirk. It is that ridiculous propaganda, decorated with anthropomorphic fruit, and in jolly, vibrant letters it says, "You are what you eat." I pause and regard the image with distaste, and I shook my head. You are what you eat; well, if that's true, then I am nothing.

I'm dawdling, and I know it.

I skim by the counselor's office, putting an extra hitch in my step as I notice Mrs. Cope locking her door. She's been breathing down my neck this week, trying to get me to talk to her, to open up to her. The problem is that she is so damn nice. If she were haughty and self-righteous like my Pre-Cal teacher, then I wouldn't have a problem telling her to shove her fake concern up her old, elderly ass. However, since she's basically my grandmother reincarnated, I can't not be nice to her. I hate it, so I avoid her.

As I pass her, I can hear her say my name, but I act like I didn't hear. Do I feel guilty? Kind of. Will I let it stop me? Hell no.

I turn the last corner and am somewhat relieved to see that neither Jessica nor Lauren are lurking. That only serves to make me more nervous. Where are they? What are they up to? I decide that it's not important, and I skitter across the twenty or so feet separating me from the outside world. It's bittersweet. I don't want to see my mother anymore than I want to see Jessica and Lauren.

I'm almost out the door when I hear it, the familiar cackle that belongs to Lauren. Seconds later, her laughter is followed by Jessica's. They're coming. I panic, and for some unknown reason, I pull back inside. I cower behind the massive trashcan, an easy feat for my tiny frame, and I watch as the two girls round the corner.

"Did you see her face?" Jessica squeals, shaking her head so hard that her curly hair swirls around her face. Her cheeks are red, flushed. "What a spazz!"

"I know!" Lauren replies. "Why do they let freaks like her go to school with us normal people?"

I am waiting for them to pass. Judging by the direction they're walking, I'm willing to bet they're heading to the football field. Jessica's boyfriend is the quarterback, so it wouldn't be surprising. I had just breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that they had not seen me, when they suddenly stop.

"Let's see what she has in here!" Lauren says excitedly. "Maybe there's some money."

"Not likely," Jessica sneers. "Have you seen what she wears?"

I peer out from around the trashcan. What is wrong with me? Why didn't I leave when I had the opportunity? There's a flicker of curiosity, though. I want to see what the vultures have snatched from the innocent. I peer around. Cautiously. Carefully. Quietly.

My eyes fall on something familiar. It's a teal book bag, mass-produced, probably from some department store. That's not what is holding my attention, though. The name "Angela" is monogrammed to the front in a bright, neon pink. A sinking feeling rips through my stomach as they pull the zipper open and dump the contents on the floor, ready to divide up the spoils.

No. This can't happen. What can I do, though? I'm significantly smaller, I've never been in a fight, and there are two of them. I hate to think of Angela's privacy being invaded, but how can I help?

And then, it happens.

"What the fuck is this?" Jessica says, emphasizing each word. She pulls out a Tupperware container. From where I am sitting, I can see tiny, plastic bags, each labeled with words I cannot read. I don't need to read them. "Oh my god. You have to see this! What a freak!"

I see red. It's not that they have stolen from someone I, on some level, care about. I've been through that. It's not that they are insulting Angela, and by proxy, me. It's the fact that they are invading something. They are attempting to annex my world. They are at the gates, trying to storm my white castle of perfection. I understand that people like them are a part of every school. I have grown to accept that. What I cannot accept, though, is a blatant violation of personal space. Watching their disgusting, filthy hands clawing at something that has taken Angela hours, maybe days, it makes me furious.

I find strength that I have never known. Rationality abandons me, as does any shred of morality and decency. I am not a girl confronting two thieves; I am a dragon, sworn to protect the gates of a pearly white, glistening city. The sanctity and safety of the castle is mine to protect. I unleash a virulent screech, and I take off running toward them. Before they can pinpoint the location of the shriek, I crash into them. Angela's bag and all the contents spill, shooting out in different directions. Desperate to keep her most cherished possession away from the monsters, I push it away with my foot.

Jessica is helping Lauren up, but I am on them again. My weight pushes Jessica forward and she hits her head against a locker. I ignore her and focus on Lauren. She is kicking at me, trying to free herself. A terrified scream comes from her lips. I can hear doors opening, people shouting, footsteps echoing. I only have a short amount of time.

Moments before hands encircle my biceps, I curl my hand into a fist, I grab Lauren by the scruff of her shirt, and I punch her on the bridge of her nose. Pain shoots up hand. I ignore it. I land another punch. There is blood on my knuckles. Lauren is crying. Her tears mix with her blood and smear across her cheeks. I smile down at her. She is bleeding because of me. The victim has become the hunter.

As I am dragged away from her, I lurch forward and grab the plastic box containing Angela's food. I hold it to my chest. I have won. I am victorious.

* * *

_Please note: If you decided to read this story based on the rating, let me be frank with you. **This is not a lemon fest. There will be no smut.** Recently, a rating of M has become synonymous with "sex, sex, sex." I don't want anyone to have expectations that I do not intend to meet. This is rated M because this story deals with some very adult themes. That is the perfect segue to my next point.** This story is meant for 18+.** Obviously, I cannot stop the younger readers from partaking in this story. I will merely ask you to** keep your age to yourself**. I'm really not meaning to sound like a pretentious ass. I just figured I should get everything out in the first chapter. _

_I think that's everything. Oh! A couple more things. **This is a W.I.P. I don't have all the chapters written**. Updates will be sporadic. If you want to 'wait list' me, I'm cool with that. I'm just posting something that's been haunting me. **Part of it is based on a dream, and part of it is based on Real Life events.** I won't say if it's me or not. I also want to state, **I am not using a beta**. I do have a vast knowledge of writing, but I am not perfect. I don't want to wait around for someone to edit my work. Considering this character's life is spiraling the drain, it makes sense that the writing be a little crazy.** Form = content? **_

_This opening chapter was inspired by a monologue entitled, "The Orange" by Joyce Carrol Oates. Some of the lines used in this this chapter can be found in there. I will provide a link in my profile to this piece. It's a great monologue. I used it for an Oral interpretation competition and received high marks._

_I'm going to shut up now. Again, I'm not trying to be a dick. :( _


	2. Chapter 2

My violent outburst isn't without repercussion. Despite how many times I try to spin the story, it all boils down to one unalienable fact in their eyes: I am sick. Whether it's of the mind, body, or soul, I have some kind of illness that has caused me to become a menace to society. I ignore the campus security guard as he tries to intimidate me into confessing responsibility for crimes I did not commit. He wants to blame all his current issues on me. Since I march to the beat of a different drum, I must be responsible for the spray paint on the science building, the gum under the desks, and the writing on the bathroom walls. Why? Convenience.

The Principal comes in and regards me with a pitiful, yet accusing expression. I am suspended, pending an investigation into the events that led up to my attack. I know the outcome, though. I will be found guilty. I was guilty when I first walked in the front doors. They won't break me, though. I refuse to become one of them, one of the masses. The lawyer, who happens to be the same man my mother is currently sleeping with, crosses the room I am sitting in and tries to get me to talk to him. I refuse. I don't want to talk to him. I want him to leave me alone. He is tainted. I can see it in his eyes; he thinks I am sick. Why won't they all just leave me alone?

I think back to the previous night. My mother found my hidden treasure. After spending months putting together my trove of sweet rewards, she invaded my sanctuary and destroyed them in mere seconds. Three months worth of allowance down the drain. Almost literally. I screamed as she broke the chocolate bars, potato chips, and other succulent treats in her hands before she flushed them down the toilet.

"Miss Swan?" I am pulled back to the present by the demanding voice of the principal. He is glaring at me. "Did you hear me?"

"Answer him, Bella!" My mother snaps, gesturing angrily.

I close my eyes and wish the voices would stop. My hands cup my ears, trying to shut them out. There are too many people looking at me. I can't breathe. I. Can't. Breathe. I can't … … …

I wake up in the hospital. Several bright, fluorescent lights blind me as I open my eyes. There is a nurse in the far corner, checking my chart or doing something that nurses do. When she finally turns around, she offers me a fake smile and welcomes me back to the world. I am hardly paying attention to her, though. My eyes zero in on the needle in my arm, and I find myself growing violently angry.

"What is this?" I demand, pointing to the I.V.

While she prattles on in a foreign, medical language, I wrap my fingers around the thin piping. The needle dislodges, and I moan in pain as it hooks at an awkward angle before falling out completely. A stream of blood stains the white sheets covering my body. Two warm lines of red cut their way down my forearm, dripping off my elbow.

The nurse hits a button on the wall and practically flies to my side. Two burly men rush in. They're dressed in stereotypical scrubs. Their immense size terrifies me and makes me struggle harder. My arms are promptly secured, while she tends to my bleeding arm. I fight against their hold, leaning over and biting into one of my captors' hands. He grunts and calls for something. I watch in horror as the nurse retrieves a syringe. I have a diagnosed phobia of needles. The sight of the thin, pointy object sends me into a full blow panic. I'm kicking my legs, flailing my arms, regardless of the men restraining me, and I am screaming at the top of my lungs. I'm begging for my mother. Where is she? She always said she would protect me. Where is she? Why won't she help me?

I thrash back and forth, and in doing so, I catch my reflection in a mirror. My eyes are wide, my cheeks are a splotchy, vivid red, and my mouth has almost dominated the entire southern part of my face. It is an angry gaping maw. I am not a human being. The dragon has returned. Only this time, I am not protecting the city or the castle. I am defending myself.

I can hear my screams echoing down the hallway as the woman grows closer. I tell her to "Go away! Leave me alone! Get away from me! Stop it! No! Someone help me! Help me! Stop it! I don't want it! Leave me alone!" She doesn't listen. She just keeps coming … with that needle. It pierces my skin, and I scream the loudest I have ever screamed before. My ears are ringing; my eyes are watering. Tears are spilling down my cheeks like waterfalls, and my entire body is shaking.

That's when everything goes black.

* * *

I am groggy when I finally regain consciousness. Not only is the needle back in my arm, my wrists have been restrained. I take a deep breath and notice the action is very uncomfortable. Shaking my head, I discover a thick tube has been inserted into my nasal cavity. A feeding tube. I start to cough and gag. My body starts to fight for me. It has sensed my weakness, and like a white knight, it is coming to my rescue. Vomit pours from my mouth, soaking my lap in warm, sticky bile. My stomach continues to push out all the intrusive contaminants until the nurse from before a younger nurse comes skulking around.

I'm given a sponge bath, during which, I glare at the offender whose name I find out is Leah. She's very rough with me, sneering at the way I rush to cover myself up after she all but rips my hospital gown off. A soft whimper cuts through my lips as I grasp at the new, pristine sheets, but they are pulled away. I hunch over, wrapping my arms over my bare skin. I'm exposed. I have to hide. This is too much. The world can't see me. This is mine. Why? Why is this happening? Two sets of hands roam over my body, scrubbing with their harsh sponges, violating with their eyes. I want to hide. I want to flee, but I can't. The restraints are unyielding. I am a prisoner.

My eyes shut, and I imagine that I am in my special place. I am in my own personal heaven. My bathroom at home. No one can reach me here. The door is locked. I close down my mind. My eyes open suddenly, and I am floating through the air. I can see the top of my head. As I observe, my body becomes slightly rigid momentarily before going limp, and somewhere, a monitor starts to beat at a sporadic, yet rapid beat.

Flat line.

A warmth spreads through me, starting from my chest and fanning outward. My head turns from the doctors rushing in with a machine. There is a luxurious place that calls to me, a place of rest and relaxation. I can feel it. I am going there. I am leaving.

I hear an echoing voice. I try to ignore it. It is small, but it soon becomes stronger.

"_Clear!" _

The world comes back. I am on the bed, again. My entire body is on fire. I cry out for water, begging someone to put the fire out. A man leans over me, and I panic. I cannot pull away from him. He shines a light in my eyes, mutters something and backs away. There is a prick at my arm, and I am once again thrust into the darkness.

* * *

The judge is eyeing me speculatively. I don't like the way she is looking at me, her eyes roaming over my body. I wrap my arms around my torso instinctively, and I try to turn away. Everywhere I turn, there are more stares. Everyone is looking at me. The spotlight is on me, even though I don't want it. Lauren and Jessica are sitting in the front row. They are snickering and pointing at me. The tiny hint of normalcy grounds me long enough to hear what the lawyer is saying.

I am pleading guilty in exchange for leniency. I'm not surprised that they have made decisions without my consent. There's something wrong. I feel clouded, like I am caught in a giant storm of fog. Breathing is a difficult task, as is thinking.

"Isabella Marie Swan, pending your completion of the predetermined period, which is sixty days, you will be released on probation under the supervision of your mother. Do you understand what I have just said to you?"

My head bobs up and down of its own accord. I understand the words, but I cannot interpret the meaning behind them. I am blank. Empty. A huge weight presses down on me from the inside, if that makes sense.

I hear the judges gavel hit, but I still don't understand what's happening. I am in a daze. Two uniformed guards help me to stand and escort me through a side door. What follows is a slew of paperwork, all of which blurs together after two minutes. My mother is muttering about me to her lawyer boyfriend. I watch them kiss and it makes me want to throw up. But I don't. I sit there in silence, wishing that I could vanish entirely.

I climb into a car with my parents, and I notice that there is a police car behind us. It follows us, its lights flashing. Do they have to do that? Flash the lights? Isn't this attention enough? I won't be able to go back to school after this is all over. Everyone will know me. I was the one who attacked the head cheerleader and her best friend. No one will believe that they stole Angela's belongings. If anything they will probably blame it on me. Angela will know, though. I suppose that is enough for now.

We've been driving for a really long time. I don't recognize the buildings on the side of the road. In fact, there are hardly any buildings on the side of the road. There are tons of trees. Tall, thick trees. I thought we were going home. Where are we? When I ask my mother, she ignores me. So does the lawyer.

The car finally stops in front of a large, white building. There are many windows on the front. There are bars on those windows. A large, stone wall surrounds the complex. Where am I?

Two large men in medical scrubs are walking toward the car. I scoot to the opposite side and call for my mother, but she does nothing. The car door is opened and I am pulled out. My nails scratch at the leather as I struggle, but it is in vain. I have no strength left and am promptly overpowered. Mom and her boyfriend follow behind. I call out to them, but they are deaf to my distress.

I am pulled in an opposite direction of my mother. She continues to ignore my pleas, and I am whisked behind another set of doors. Once there, I am forced to change into a different set of clothes. These are scratchy and smell weird.

I am taken to a large, white room. There are bars on the windows, a small, cruddy television in the corner, and several tables and chairs. I sit down and wait patiently, casting nervous stares at the two men standing by the doorway.

The door opens. My mother walks in. I rush to her and try to hug her. She holds me at arms' length.

"Why are we here?" I ask. "I want to go home."

"You have to stay here," she insists, patting my hair. "They're going to help you here, Bella. You're going to get better."

Better? What does that mean? I don't know what she could possibly mean. She starts to pull away and I panic. I latch onto her, beg her not to leave, but it's useless. She walks out the doors she came from. I rush after her, but I am pulled in the other direction. They take me into a long corridor, the walls are white, and the floor is white. Almost everything in this place is white! I scream and cry for help, but no one comes.

I am pulled into a side room. There are two cots there. I am laid out on one of them. I watch in horror as one of the large men fill a syringe. I kick, scream, and thrash, but in the end it doesn't matter. I go out like a light, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

* * *

_Please note that many of Bella's reactions are over-exaggerated. _


End file.
